


A White Flag on Baker Street

by Scatterboom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-18 05:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9369974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scatterboom/pseuds/Scatterboom
Summary: There are very few things that could trouble Mrs. Hudson. Her boys keeping secrets from her. The nagging idea that her long-lost best friend could be in the country, somewhere within reach. The mysterious guest of 221B who continually refuses to use the front door, opting instead for Sherlock’s bedroom window. On the battlefield known as Baker Street, a determined landlady takes up the challenge of facing them all at once.





	1. A Very Interesting Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> If you're fresh from a very stressful viewing of The Final Problem, and am wondering now what to do with all your free time like me, I'm sure you're in dire need of some nice, light-hearted fic. Hope this helps :)
> 
> I've had this fic in my files for quite a while, since last year. How lucky (and ecstatic) am I that S4, though in my opinion rather flawed, contained generous amounts of a BAMF Mrs. Hudson. Generous as they were, I'm craving even more. Which is why I gave this fic another look-over and decided to get to finishing it. It contains two chapters; still in the middle of proofreading the second, so I can't give a sure update timeline. In any case: Enjoy!

 The daffodils were coming along crooked.

Mrs. Hudson, called Martha by friends, sighed and painstakingly undid half her needlework, one stitch at a time. It was her fourth failed attempt at intricate embroidery in as many months, and her fingertips were not appreciating all of their contact with the needle. She put away the could-have-been-doily to a corner of her desk, and leaned back in her chair.

The stars and crescent moon looked lovely from her bedroom window. It was a perfect night, but only outside. Here in 221, every possible thing was causing her some amount of distress:

The fact that tonight she was all alone in that tall old townhouse.

On the railing at the front door, a little white flag was drawn up conspicuously, at a time it most certainly shouldn’t be.

And right beside her, at her bedroom desk, leaned her heaviest stand-up dustpan, in case the intruder she was expecting at her kitchen window at around midnight would actually show up.

She can explain. It all started with her hip.

* * *

 At her last checkup months ago with Doctor Avelino, she was informed that her hip was in very creaky condition (better words had been used, she just couldn’t be bothered to remember them all) and he strongly suggested against any strenuous physical activity lest her last surgery be for naught. In fact, avoid any significant amount of physical activity, period.

“Then what am I _supposed_ to do?” Martha had asked, already mourning the end of her dance fitness sessions at the nearby yoga studio.

“Ehrm…” Doctor Avelino had thought for several seconds. “…What about embroidery?”

Not very fun, she concluded. Also surprisingly expensive. Ever since blue-haired, tattooed young ones replaced little old ladies like her as the main demographic at the craft stores she knew of, rates for thread and sewing equipment had skyrocketed.

It could be – calming, at least. She remembered, wistfully, how it was her old best friend Margaret’s favorite hobby.

* * *

 The white flag had a more amusing origin story. In the last weeks it had been very hard for Martha to maintain her “don’t do bloody anything” promise to Doctor Avelino, what with throngs of potential clients every day banging on the front door, prompting her out of her easy chair, just to inform them that, sorry, no, Mr. Holmes is out solving another case at the moment and, no, sorry, she can’t take a message, you’ll have to e-mail him. Her hip would complain the whole journey back into her living room. So about two months ago, she came up with what she fancied to be a highly elegant solution.

Sherlock and John had appeared around the corner of Baker Street, back from another case, when Martha was fixing up the three-foot flagpole on the right railing of the door. Its banner, a stark cotton white, waved gently in the air.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Hudson,” said John, though his eyes were on the newest feature of 221.

“John! Care for some tea? How was the orchestra case?”

“Ah, yeah, was hoping to stop by for a spot before heading home, thanks,” he replied, still amusedly distracted. He pointed. “Eh, what’s that?”

“It’s a flag – “

“Former cellist did it,” Sherlock answered her second question, not looking up from his mobile. “Good idea to boot him from the Philharmonic, either way. His trills were offensively clumsy.” He finally looked up, and raised an eyebrow. “What is _that?_ ”

“It’s a flag,” Martha repeated cheerfully. “Mrs. Turner had a sale and I was lucky enough to get to it before anyone else.”

“And what is it doing on my front door?”

“ _My_ front door, dear. I just thought, whenever you’re out helping one client, a dozen more show up knocking here. It’s not good for my hip that I make so many trips out to the hall, so I thought of this. Could you do me a favor, Sherlock? Whenever you step out, you could draw the flag down, so people know you’re not in and they won’t bother me out of my chair. Make it a little signal for them.”

Sherlock’s eye twitched, like he was considering the idea. Then he swooped in to give her a peck on the cheek before heading up the steps. He waved a hand behind him, “Fine, whatever makes things easier.” As he disappeared into the hall, he called out, “Someone’s going to have to remind me, though.”

“’Someone’ meaning me,” said John, though there was a layer of tired to his good-natured tone. Then he pulled out his mobile. “Alright, step aside, Mrs. Hudson. I can take a photo of the flag and announce it on the blog, I guess.”

 It was the beginning of the most wonderful afternoon naps in her easy chair that Martha had ever experienced.

* * *

 As for her midnight guest – well, that had the strangest explanation of all.

Ever since Martha had to abandon her daily dance fitness classes, she was never exhausted enough by 8:30PM to go to bed like before, and found herself staying up late into the evening, struggling with embroidery, or flipping through channels on the telly (who _knew_ they hid all the good shows in the late timeslots?), or simply sitting in her easy chair with a good book.

It would be around midnight that she’d hear the most peculiar noises.

The first time it happened was while she was sitting in her kitchen, letting a chamomile teabag steep in her mug of hot water, when she heard what sounded like scraping against brick. Then something, possibly hands, clamping repeatedly onto the drainpipe that scaled the outside wall of her kitchen.

Her hand had frozen, mid-dip of her teaspoon into her mug, as she listened to whatever was outside _climb_ the drainpipe, before the faint creaking of a window – Sherlock’s.

Martha gripped the edge of the table and pushed herself up. Her side ached in protest, but she was too tensed to care. Her first, and usually correct, instinct, was _intruder._ The one disadvantage of everyone knowing the address of one Sherlock Holmes was that it made him a painfully easy target for burglars, overzealous fans, or anyone who pleased, to attempt a break-in. Mycroft’s people had long since had special alarms installed at the door and all the windows of 221’s façade to combat that – but Sherlock’s bedroom window, hidden from public view, and accessible only from the block’s inner yards?

This wasn’t just someone who was extremely determined to trespass into 221B, this was someone who was very, very knowledgeable of its layout – someone who’d done their research, then.

Adrenaline flooded Martha’s veins. What could she do? Run up there and stop the intruder herself? She doubted her hip would let her do that very efficiently. Yell out of her kitchen window and get Sherlock’s attention? What if that only spurred this mystery person to move faster, or even worse, attack him?

Martha had put a hand over her mouth, dazed with her dilemma. But the next sound she heard, low and muffled, broke her out of it.

Sherlock’s voice.

Martha was frozen at first, but then she uncovered her mouth and forced herself to relax. Sherlock sounded… calm. She couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it was clear from his tone that he had been… expecting this stranger to break in through his window. In fact, it was almost as if he was resuming a conversation they’d begun some time before.

Martha firmly set down her teaspoon; it clinked sharply against the wood. She made her way around the kitchen table and leaned forward over her sink, closer to her opened window. It was too acute an angle for her to be able to see anything on the second floor, so instead she tilted her head, straining to listen. Two soft thumps, probably the intruder’s feet landing onto his bedroom floor. But they were light and spaced far apart, as if they’d entered slowly – as if Sherlock had extended a hand to help them in.

Her eyebrows furrowed. Who was this? Most probably not a client, and clearly not an enemy. Ruling the latter out, however, let her fear give way to her feeling rather insulted. Why wouldn’t Sherlock trust _her,_ his landlady, with welcoming this guest in for him, and why on earth did they have to come visit in the dead of night, far past the time she usually went to bed?

Then, the next sound: a new voice. A _woman’s_ voice.

Martha shook her head slightly, wondering if she was hearing wrong. The woman spoke in the same low tone as Sherlock, though sometimes it would lilt in humor or question. She sounded… familiar, and if not that, she spoke so calmly and softly that it was almost comforting.

Nevertheless, that only sealed Martha’s determination to figure out what on earth was going on, and she decided she would keep eavesdropping until everything made sense, no matter how much her wrists ached in protest at her leaning over her sink.

To her dismay, the next thing she heard was the creak of Sherlock’s window, as someone slowly pulled it shut. The sounds of their voices evaporated.

Never mind – Martha hobbled her way back into her kitchen chair. She could stay up and wait for this mystery guest to climb back down her wall, and she could confront her herself, no matter how long it took.

Martha waited, and waited, and waited.

One moment, she was closing her eyes, which were beginning to throb with fatigue, and when she opened them again, the morning light was washing over the wood of her kitchen table and her mug of chamomile tea gone cold.

* * *

 She asked Sherlock about this the very next day, of course.

“Pardon?” he’d said lazily, opening one eye as he lie draped over his couch. He was in his pyjamas and blue dressing gown, which Martha had come to recognize as his I Have No Cases At The Moment And The World Is A Putrid Compost Pit I Had Never Asked To Be Born Into uniform. John wasn’t over that day; it was Rosie’s first visit to the dentist (though she’d demanded he send her a dozen pictures of her getting ready, entering the cab, and sitting in the waiting room).

She straightened from having set down a tray of biscuits on his work desk, and turned to face him fully, arms akimbo. “I said, who was your friend last night?”

Sherlock’s one opened eye shifted over to her. “Friend?”

Martha shrugged. “I would assume anyone you trust to have inside your sacred bedroom is at least a friend.” She pouted in thought, eyes flicking upwards. “Or a very, very interesting enemy.”

Sherlock seemed to like that idea, if his one-sided smirk was anything to go by. But he shut his eye again, and folded his hands over his abdomen. “Neither such characters were in my bedroom last night, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Then whose voice was I hearing?” she prodded. Then, with a theatrical gasp, “Sherlock Holmes, are you seeing another housekeeper behind my back?”

His smirk became a charming little grin. “I thought you weren’t my housekeeper.”

“Evading the question – oh, I’ve been told that that’s a bad sign. Can’t remember who taught me that, though.”

Sherlock sighed. “If you must know – an overly desperate client called me last night. I was feeling too lazy to keep my hand to my ear, so I put them on speaker and left my mobile on my nightstand. Probably a bad idea. I eventually fell asleep while they were still talking to me. I think I’d solved it, though.”

Martha opened her mouth, ready to chide him for lying so casually, ready to tell him, _that doesn’t explain the sounds I heard of someone scaling our inner wall,_ but then she stopped herself.

She knew her tenant well, and she knew he’d be able to come up with a new alibi for every new accusation she might launch at him. It wouldn’t be awfully productive to keep questioning him this way. And besides – isn’t life so much more interesting with a mystery to solve? At least, that seemed to be Sherlock’s mindset about things. She supposed she could try this “detective” thing out.

“Oh, how rude of them,” she played along, and turned to make her way to the exit. “Well. Do tell your clients that your very faithful landlady goes to bed promptly at 8:30, and she’d rather they schedule their ‘overly desperate’ calls to you before then. Is that alright?”

At that, Sherlock opened both his eyes and lifted his head, to look at her in an odd way. Martha stood at the doorway, smiling sweetly back at him.

After a few seconds, Sherlock dropped his head back to the armrest. “Sure. Anything to help you believe that you’re the one, special Mrs. Hudson in my life.”

A rush of warmth turned her stage-smile into a genuine one. “That’s my boy,” she said, as she turned to leave.

* * *

 Martha stayed up til one AM that night, and heard nothing – no climbing, no whispers, no scrape of an opening window.

* * *

 It was about two weeks later, when the last intrusion was already a fading memory, that she heard the familiar clamp of hands against the drainpipe again, right on schedule at the stroke of midnight.

Martha scrambled to put away her embroidery, and leaned far in her chair to bend her head to the window.

The exact same pattern – several seconds of climbing, and the pushing open of Sherlock’s window. Martha’s pulse spiked as she heard both of them speaking, just like before.

And then suddenly – the window creaked again, shutting away their voices. Martha blinked, and realized that one of them had closed it. They didn’t know, she thought to herself in dull horror, that she was eavesdropping, did they?

The idea made her surprisingly nervous, and she picked back up her half-finished design, hoping that the tedium of her bumblebee template would distract her.

She was mid-stitch of a bee’s black stripe when her question was very, very, disturbingly answered. Something thudded directly above her, the suddenness of it making her drop her needle.

She had barely enough time to process what had happened, when she heard a thud of the same bluntness again – and then again, and again, and again.

Now. Mrs. Hudson was a little old lady living a quiet, semi-retired life. But before that, she was a _young_ one, and that meant possessing the knowledge and experience of any young, pretty, outgoing lady, accompanied by her husband and best friend. And she sure as bloody hell had enough knowledge and experience to immediately identify just _what_ those “thud”s were.

She was, admittedly, a little dumbstruck by what she was eavesdropping on. _Her_ Sherlock? Doing _that?_ The man hardly seemed interested in such activities. Too messy and intellectually unrewarding, she could imagine him telling her, deadpan, like she’d asked for his thoughts on the stock market. This must be a very close friend – _or a very interesting enemy,_ she reminded herself wryly.

Still, as amusing as the idea was, she was getting increasing uncomfortable with the noises, which were rising in speed and volume. It was that innate British sense of propriety, she supposed. With a sudden rush of willpower, Martha pushed herself up and escaped to her own bedroom, where the thuds were still audible, although a little more distant and muffled, to her relief. She thought a silence prayer of thanks for the invention of pillows as she bunched one over her ear.

* * *

 That next morning, when Sherlock and John took off to chase down some jewel thief (though not before drawing down the white flag to inform clients they were out, as Martha had to remind them), she went to investigate his bedroom. There was, expectedly, no mystery woman left dozing in his sheets. But to her satisfaction (and also profound horror), the marks on his wallpaper where his bedposts rested, and the scrapes on his floor, told her everything she needed to know (and far too much more).

* * *

 She had a week of peace (two successfully abandoned stitch works!) before she heard it again. Another two weeks, and the same thing. It was getting unbearable and, truth to be told, embarrassing. For goodness’ sake, her lack of strenuous physical activity in the day was already keeping her up til midnight, but now Sherlock’s bizarre affair with this mystery woman was stealing away even her early morning hours!

Soon enough, Martha resolved that she would confront Sherlock about this, and she wouldn’t give up until he told her the full truth. She was even ready to get Mycroft Holmes involved, and have him install his special alarms at his bedroom window if it came to that. Anything to get her precious sleep back, even if it meant giving up this particularly intriguing mystery. God, no wonder Sherlock never slept on a case.

She decided to wait for an evening when the mystery woman was over and unable to hide from her, so she could speak to both of them directly.

That evening came just a few days later, but it didn’t occur the way she expected.

Martha had waited at her kitchen table like before, and listened – to the climbing, the two light thumps of feet landing on the floor, the quiet words of greeting. The closing of the window, right on schedule. She was ready to push out of her chair and march up the stairs, fragile hip be damned.

This idea was promptly forgotten, however, when the rhythmic knocks of bedposts against wall never arrived, replaced instead with – shouting.

Yes: the mystery woman was yelling some sort of abuse (Accusation? Challenge? Threat?), and Sherlock was firing back with equal intensity.

 _Shouting?_ Martha thought in alarm. She knew they’d closed his bedroom window, which normally blocked out their voices at their typical volume. But apparently, this fight was intense enough that it traveled through the floorboards, and the building’s skeleton easily carried it over into her kitchen.

It was… unsettling. Frightening even. Was this going to end in violence? Was the woman going to leave in a huff, climbing hastily down their drainpipe, only to slip and fall onto the concrete below?

Martha was momentarily puzzled by her concern for this total stranger. What would it matter that this very noisy trespasser on her property were injured? But then – _not a total stranger,_ she reminded herself. This was a person Sherlock cared for enough to let her sneak into his room time and time again. That he cared for enough to… share a bed with. And most importantly, that he cared for enough to have very loud fights with. So, she concluded, this person’s safety was now something she had to look out for, secret as her involvement was.

She was distracted from this train of thought when she heard Sherlock’s window open again – though this time it was quick and sharp, and she even heard it clang against the outside brick wall. The woman was leaving. Martha pulled herself up, hoping to catch a glimpse as she descended.

There was a stir of shadow as the woman landed, but, even with the faint moonlight to aid her, Martha saw nothing more, only heard the clack of heels against the concrete, which soon faded away.

* * *

 Martha could no longer sit and eavesdrop for answers. That would take her several months, maybe years.

She knew that confronting Sherlock now (who, for a couple of weeks now, had been in a noticeably agitated state) would only lead him to shut her out further. In fact, the mere mention of their little inside joke about being unfaithful with landladies caused the man to give her the cold shoulder for two entire days. Even John had noted to her that the detective was spending a significantly larger amount of time brooding in his chair, or at his chemistry set, or staring grimly out the window. Martha of course knew why, but she decided against telling John, for the good doctor’s own sanity.

Predictably, the woman did not visit for several weeks. But Martha had figured out their pattern:

She only ever came by after Sherlock had solved a case – specifically, after John had posted about it on his blog. And, more importantly, she only ever came by when the flag at the front of 221 was raised.

So, she waited for the boys to file away another mystery – took them no time at all, considering Sherlock’s grumpy state – and then rang up Detective Inspector Lestrade.

“ _Overnight?_ ” the man said incredulously over the phone. “You expect me to put up with him for over forty-eight hours?”

“Oh, please, I know you love it,” Martha chided him, stirring her teaspoon in her pre-battle cup of tea. “If you ask me, I think it’d be fun. The three of you, on a road trip to the next county for some case, bonding over – I don’t know what you lot gab about, death and illegal matters – “

“Rugby and crap telly, mostly,” Lestrade said. Then he sighed. “Alright, yeah. The lads at Berkshire are always bugging me to borrow the two. I could drive them over for a weekend.” He paused. “You’ll owe me lunch, though, you realize?”

Ah, the Detective Inspector was flirting with her again, Martha thought with a smile. “You’ll get a cup of tea if you get me a picture of Sherlock at the Beale Park zoo, wearing their t-shirt.”

“Deal.”

* * *

 “We don’t _need_ to take a road trip to look at a zoo custodian who was found with close-contact stab wounds in an inaccessible spot in the panda sanctuary,” Sherlock sulked out on the sidewalk the next morning, as John took his overnight bag from his hand to lug it into Lestrade’s trunk. “It was probably the balloon vendor. If you look at the staff page on their website, it’s obvious.”

“Don’t mind him, he’s actually excited to have something to do other than brood,” the doctor assured Martha, reaching into his jacket pocket for a slip of paper. “Here’s the number of Rosie’s babysitter, though she said she’ll call you once she tucks her into bed.”

“Lighten up, they got us a hotel with an unsolved arson case,” Lestrade said, giving Sherlock a pat on the back, a little too forcefully prompting him to enter his car. He gave Martha a wink before climbing in himself.

“Ah, before I forget – “ Sherlock stuck his head out the passenger seat window, and called out to John, who was pushing the trunk lid closed – “John, bring our flag down!” He twisted to face Martha. “See. I remember sometimes.”

She smiled at that, while John sighed and trudged up their front steps to follow his order. The white banner slid down the short pole, to hang limply over the black iron railing.

John hopped back down and gave Martha a peck on the cheek. “See you tomorrow. I hope.”

“Good luck, my Baker Street boys,” she said.

She watched the car pull away, then shrink into the far end of the road, before disappearing at the turn.

She went up the front steps, grabbed a hold of the rope, and drew the white flag back up to full height.

Then she climbed up to Sherlock’s bedroom, shut his window, and locked it from the inside.

* * *

 That was the long, long story of why she was alone in the townhouse tonight, and why the white flag was up and visible for all potential clients (though thankfully, none had come knocking that afternoon), and why she had her secret weapon: a stand-up dustpan, leaning against her desk, ready for battle. If the mystery woman was going to visit again, tonight was the time for her to do it.

She left her kitchen window open for her, though she decided to hide in her bedroom for the wait, should the woman spot her from afar.

And wait she did. She reread the last chapter of a favorite book. She rearranged her colored plates, first in rainbow order, then in an alternating pattern. She tried to do some embroidery, but the daffodils were coming along crooked. It was a lovely, coolly-lit evening, but she felt like she was surrounded by darkness and silence. By half-past midnight, she was feeling a little hopeless.

Thank goodness for the sudden sound of a pair of heels, clacking against the pavement in the inner yard. Martha pushed out of her chair and grabbed the handle of her dustpan, facing her slightly-open bedroom door.

A shift of shadow, as the woman walked up to the wall and began her ascent. Martha’s grip tightened, ready – her guest would climb up to find a locked window.

Sure enough, next came the sounds of a hand insistently jiggling a metal handle. She tried for quite some time – _a determined intruder,_ Martha noted. Had she returned to apologize?

Then she began knocking on the glass, soon resorting to banging it. _And an impatient one,_ Martha noted further.

Finally, she heard the woman return to the drainpipe, half-climbing, half-sliding down it. And then – Martha’s heart skipped a beat – the clang of a shoe sole against the frame of her kitchen window, as expected.

She raised the dustpan over her head as if it were an axe, with shaking, but still tight, fingers. Slowly she heard the woman climbed in through her window, and slowly Martha edged around the cover of her bedroom door, prepared to attack –

Suddenly, a violent chorus of clangs and thuds. Martha was caught off-guard, confused by the sound – and then she realized the woman must have slipped upon stepping into the unexpected obstacle of her kitchen sink, and fallen to the floor. This was confirmed by a cry of pain that made Martha’s blood run cold.

Still gripping her dustpan, she kicked open her door and made a solid step into her kitchen, to defend herself from this puzzle of a guest who had tormented her for months and months.

It was then she discovered, speckled in shadow yet visibly sprawled on the tiles of her kitchen floor, writhing in pain as she clutched a twisted ankle, the woman she recognized as Miss Irene Adler.


	2. White Flag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Admittedly it's been hard to do anything lighthearted because of all the recent news.
> 
> My partner is an immigrant, and though not a national of any of the banned countries, we both fear so much what's to come. I'm worried sick for her safety, and her family's safety, every day, but at the same time I admire her courage and stubbornness. It's a tough road ahead, but I think we - everyone - can face it.
> 
> In any case, I think we can agree that we all deserve time to disengage a few minutes each day, if only to rest and recollect and come back stronger than ever to voice our dissent. My wife deserves it, I deserve it - you deserve it.
> 
> So please, enjoy this next chapter. It's very long; I'd originally wanted to split it into 2 chapters, but a promise is a promise, and I'd assured many people that all questions would be answered :) Thank you for your patience! I hope you all have a good week.

Martha remained frozen for several seconds, as she stared at the woman she had successfully lured into her kitchen.

Irene Adler – it was _her,_ no doubt; she may had met her only once over five years ago, but even when half-shrouded in shadow it was unmistakably her – continued to writhe on the floor, her eyes squeezed shut, sucking in gasps of air through clenched teeth. She looked a little different, of course: her hair was now a lighter shade of brown, and instead of bare feet and Sherlock’s oversized dressing gown she had on a beige coat over a sleek black jumpsuit and impossible platform heels, though one was now half-shod, dangling from her toes as her hands clamped on to the alarming swell her right ankle had grown into.

It occurred to Martha then, as she stood halfway out her bedroom door, dustpan shaking though still raised over her head, that she had planned absolutely bloody nothing beyond the capture of her mystery guest.

So distracted was she by this unfortunate realization that it took her another moment to look down and discover that the floor-based Irene Adler was now staring straight at her, eyes wide.

Martha gave a yelp of surprise and jump nearly a foot back – though still she didn’t drop her dustpan. “Alright, Missy,” she barked, and she was frustrated to hear it come out more like a squeak, “You’ll tell me this instant why you’ve been repeatedly breaking into _my_ property, or I’m calling the police.”

She didn’t expect the woman to react so violently – “No, no _don’t – “_ she blurted, releasing a hand to reach it towards Martha, though it caused her injured ankle to drop to the floor and hit the tiles hard. She hissed and her head fell back from the fresh pain.

“And why,” Martha said, making sure to sound as steely and authoritative as she could this time, “the bloody hell _not?_ ” Okay, now her arms were getting sore, so she let herself lower the dustpan to the ground. “Honestly – Miss Irene Adler, right? – I _do_ know who you are. You couldn’t just use the front door all this time? I would’ve been happy to let you in, you know. It’s a lot more comforting to me when Mycroft’s government cameras capture the people that I welcome into the – “

“ _Can’t_ ,” Irene answered between gasps, “Can’t let the government – know I’m here.”

Martha put her hands on her hips. “And why is that? Listen, it’s not a _law_ thing; heaven knows legality is the last of my concerns. Honestly, it’s more about decency – “

“You don’t understand,” Irene rasped, turning her body as if struggling to assume a crawling position. “They think I’m dead.”

“And so?” Martha shrugged, bewildered. “My mother-in-law thinks I’m dead, doesn’t turn _me_ into a hermit – “ she noticed that Irene had been able to flip over onto stomach and was now dragging herself away with her forearms, “ – Oh no, you’re not going anywhere, you’re seriously injured!”

Irene, ignoring her, braced a hand on the kitchen table and tried to heave herself up. Predictably, as soon as she applied pressure on her injured ankle she lost her grip and collapsed – into Martha’s hurriedly outstretched arms.

Her knees nearly buckled under Irene’s weight, but she shakily kept them both upright. “Alright, listen,” she said as firmly as possible with what air was still left inside her, “You’ve got a bad foot and I’ve got a bad hip, so we’re going to have to work together.”

Irene grunted in complaint, but slung her arm over Martha’s shoulder anyway. The added weight sent a pang through her hip, and the pocket of Irene’s jumpsuit, which seemed to be hiding some hard, heavy object, was not any help. But she gritted her teeth, one hand taking hold of Irene’s wrist, and the other wrapping around her back.

Together they stumbled the long, long, curse-filled, ten-step journey into Martha’s bedroom. As soon as she could, Irene slipped out of her grip and let herself flop onto the bed, sighing as she shook off her heels.

Martha, freed, stretched out her limbs in relief. With her eyes closed, she witnessed no indication that Irene was about to say what she said next: “…Thank you.”

She looked at her. Moonlight shafted in through her bedroom blinds, illuminating Irene in strips of light, but even then she could clearly see that the woman was tired. Not just from her injury. Tired… in general. Tired from what, exactly, Martha supposed she would have to find out.

“Let’s look at that sprain, shall we,” she offered, and before Irene could protest she’d sat on the bed, taken a pillow from the head end and placed it under Irene’s foot to elevate it. It was purple and badly swollen, and upon looking up Martha could see that just from her gentle handling Irene was tightly closing her eyes.

She _tsk­_ -ed. “Ooh, doesn’t look good. This’ll take a few days to heal, won’t it.”

Irene propped herself up on her elbows. “ _What?_ I can’t stay here for ‘a few days’.”

Martha raised both brows at her. “Why not? Staying here for one night at a time doesn’t seem difficult for you.”

Irene shut her mouth, pressing her lips in a tight line, but Martha could tell well enough that it wasn’t out of shame; rather, Irene could just tell when she’d been beaten in an argument.

“In any case,” Martha hummed, giving the younger woman’s calf a light pat. “You’re in no condition to move around. Just let me take care of this. Sleep for a few hours, and by ten tomorrow morning Sherlock will be back from – “

 _“No,”_ Irene cut in, more intensely than she had before. Martha looked up in surprise. The woman’s eyes were wide, her fists clenched on the bedspread. She took a breath. “…Sherlock can’t know I’m here. Don’t tell him.”

Martha didn’t respond immediately. She stared at Irene, searching for signs of sarcasm, or delirium from her pain. “Er… you came here to speak with him, didn’t you?”

Irene’s jaw worked, but she didn’t say anything. Martha didn’t break eye contact with her. The two were locked in a silent standoff for a long moment, one unwilling to give an answer and the other infinitely patient for one.

Then, when it seemed like Irene was about to open her mouth, her right foot jerked, which, judging by Irene’s mouth suddenly twisting into a grimace, wasn’t very comfortable. “Oh dear,” Martha said, jumping up, “Let me help.”

It wasn’t until minutes later, after Martha had applied an ice pack to the sprain, then wrapped it in bandage (a strip of cloth from her linen closet), that it occurred to her that Irene might have moved her foot on purpose, so that the resulting pain could distract them both from the conversation. _Not the sharing type, is she,_ Martha thought to herself as she washed up in the loo, gazing at herself in the mirror.

When she returned to her bedroom, Irene was now neatly positioned on the far side of the bed, lying on top of the cover, her bandaged ankle up on the pillow, though funnily she was still in the clothes she’d broken in wearing.

“Want to borrow a robe, dear?” Martha offered, switching off her bathroom light.

Irene shifted. “No, I’m fine.”

“An extra blanket, then? So we don’t disturb your foot to get you warm.”

She wrapped her overcoat tighter over her abdomen. “No thank you.”

Martha frowned, but then she decided she was too tired to keep up such a fruitless interrogation. She pulled the bed cover back and scooted into the opposite side, not ignorant of Irene’s eyes on her.

“Would you… prefer I slept on your couch?” Irene asked, sounding uneasy.

“After our ordeal carrying each other eight feet from my kitchen? No, you stay put, Miss Adler,” Martha said sternly. She settled her head onto her pillow, which was the warmest, loveliest thing in the universe at the moment. “Now, go to sleep, won’t you. I won’t be this nice to you in the morning.”

She closed her eyes then, and though she continued to hear Irene’s soft breathing, she didn’t say another word.

* * *

When Martha woke up, the sun shining brightly through her eyelids, she felt cozy and fully rested. Her hip didn’t even feel sore, even after she’d slept on her side. Not at all like she’d had a showdown last night with the mystery guest who’d been breaking into her property for months.

Oh, right.

She opened her eyes to find Irene fully awake, sat up against the headboard with her arms crossed. She was staring straight ahead.

“Did you sleep, dear?” Martha asked, yawning.

Irene looked at her. “Yes. A little bit.” She returned to staring off into space.

Martha furrowed her brows. “What time is it?”

Irene glanced at the slant of sunlight across the edge of Martha’s bed. “About nine.”

“How did you – “ Martha began, but then shook her head. She supposed that Sherlock just sort of knew where to find clever friends. “Would you like some breakfast?”

“No, thank you.”

“Oh. Well, just tea, then?”

“No, I’m fine.”

Martha found herself smiling. “Not used to that. Right about now, Sherlock would be calling down the stairs at me for both.”

The corners of Irene’s lips moved, as if she were assessing this new information. She didn’t respond, though. Martha stretched and pushed herself out of bed. “Alright, at least let me help you to the loo.”

Finally some sign of life showed on Irene’s face when she turned to stare at Martha with wide eyes. “Excuse me?”

Martha shrugged. “You’ve not moved from bed all night. I’m sure you need to…?” When Irene didn’t move, she said, “Oh come now, I’m not gonna carry you in there. I’ll stand at the door.”

The younger woman finally sighed, and put into her hand into Martha’s outstretched one. She maneuvered herself to the edge of the bed and, like last night, swung her arm over the landlady’s shoulder. Another huffing, puffing, five-step journey to the bathroom door.

As soon as their feet touched cold tile, Irene let go and planted both her hands on the ledge of the sink. Again, she seemed unsure of what to do.

“Need a layer off?” Martha offered – she was still in her coat and jumpsuit from the previous night, though she now balanced one heel-less foot on the floor while dangling her bandaged one inches above it.

Irene turned to her and shook her head – _odd,_ Martha thought to herself. It was an innocent, concerned request… sort of. She _was_ rather keen to search the woman’s pockets, just to learn what it was she’d bring to her semi-monthly rendezvouses on the upper floor. “Just…” Irene finally spoke up, “…close the door, please.”

When she was done, and Martha had escorted her back to the bed (getting the hang of it now), Irene practically sank into the mattress, as if exhausted by the trip away from it.

“What am I to do with you now,” Martha said good-naturedly, fixing a pillow again under her injured ankle. “Is there a guidebook I can flip through?”

Finally, Irene cracked something vaguely like a smile, folding her hands over her stomach. “Clearly you need one, as you’ve been treating me like the opposite of a prisoner.”

Martha grinned back. “Used to being held captive, are you.”

Just as quickly as it had come, Irene’s smile vanished, and she looked like ice. “Sort of,” she said.

Oh, dear. Martha wasn’t dim enough to not catch on that she’d said something unpleasant. The two of them were quiet for a while. Martha pulled her hands away from the pillow at Irene’s foot, and clasped them awkwardly at her back, strategizing how best to disappear into the kitchen without making some kind of inane excuse –

They heard the sound of a car pulling to a stop in front of 221.

Martha twisted her head at the noise, the same time Irene sat up. “Oh,” the older woman said, in a voice that came out much, much calmer than she expected.

“You said they wouldn’t be back til ten,” Irene hissed.

“Stay right there,” she blurted, to which Irene responded with a humorless glare. Martha took a burgundy dressing gown from off her coat hook and hastily shrugged it on, knotted the belt at her waist, then sprung out her bedroom door, which she made sure to close firmly behind her.

When she got to the front steps, all three men were already out the car, DI Lestrade helping John open up the boot. “Boys! I didn’t expect you back til – “ She was swept into an enthusiastic hug and peck on the cheek from Sherlock.

“It was the _missing panda feeder_ ,” Sherlock told her, looking weirdly exhilarated, considering what he was saying. “The one who disappeared months ago. He’d been living _inside_ the sanctuary.”

“Found the bloke hiding in one of the caves,” Lestrade confirmed, pulling out Sherlock’s luggage. “Scary sight. Don’t know why it’s got him all excited.”

“Because I was _wrong_ before,” Sherlock turned to him, though he still had his hands firmly on Martha’s shoulders. “I’m right so often, it proves for a much more interesting journey when it turns out I actually missed something.”

“How to humble-brag, 101,” John joked with no malice, gaze fixed on his mobile.

“Don’t tell me you’re tweeting that,” Sherlock said, going to take his luggage from Lestrade, “I thought you were working on the blog post.”

“I am, I am,” John made his way to Martha and gave her his own kiss on the cheek. “Been pestering me the whole ride back to get started writing, this one.”

Martha smiled at that, and was about to ask Sherlock why he was so frantic about publishing this particular case – but then she shut her mouth, disturbed by the suspicion that most probably, her answer was inside the building, sitting on her bed. She cast a glance over Sherlock, who was hopping his weight now from one foot to the other, and allowed herself to deduce that his restlessness wasn’t just from delight, but also… agitation. _They_ had _ended their last meeting on a bad note, after all. Perhaps he wants to talk to her about it…?_

“Hold on,” the detective said, interrupting her train of thought. He pointed at something behind her. “Our flag. Why’s it up?”

“Oh.” Martha went cold, when she realized what she’d forgotten to take care of last night. Sure enough, the little white flag was right where she’d left it: at the top of the pole. “Well.”

“Funny,” John said, scratching his head. “Thought I’d brought that down.” He looked at her. “Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Anyone bother you last night?”

“Oh!” Martha said again, showing all her teeth. “No, thank goodness. We were lucky this time, weren’t we!”

“Not lucky, Mrs. Hudson, we’re just good,” Sherlock said, passing her to enter the hallway. “We ate on the way, no need for breakfast.”

Martha tilted her head at him. “I wasn’t going to offer any.”

Sherlock paused to turn back to her. Then, he shrugged. “See, I’m just that good.” The two of them shared a quick, quiet smile that contained all the affection they had for each other, before Sherlock spun back around to hop up the stairs. “Tea would be nice, though,” he called out.

“We’ll just finish up this blog post and I’ll head home,” John waved his mobile as he brushed past Martha himself. “Good to see you again, Mrs. Hudson. Er – thanks for the trip, Greg!”

Martha bid the detective inspector goodbye, too, with a promise of tea the next day at three o’clock. She made her way back into her home, wondering briefly if her inmate might have taken this time to escape, and – no, Irene still sat obediently on her bed with her sprained ankle, twiddling her thumbs.

The younger woman turned to Martha as soon as she’d reentered the bedroom, eyes sleepy, but scrutinizing. “Well. How is he?”

“If you want to know so badly, why not say hello yourself?”

Irene gave her a frosty look, then flicked her eyes towards her desk. “Who likes daffodils?”

Martha had been busy re-knotting the tie of her robe, and the question caught her off-guard. “Pardon?”

The woman lifted a finger. “Your needlework over there. It’s daffodils.”

Martha turned the same direction. She had to squint a little to see and remember the embroidery hoop she’d left on the table last night, before discovering Irene. Must have excellent eyesight, this one. “Oh, that’s just a template I found on the internet that I’m following.”

“Not well,” Irene said, though it sounded more like an observation than an insult. “So. Who likes daffodils?”

She knitted her brows. “What on earth do you mean? Everyone likes daffodils.”

“Sure,” Irene shrugged, “But I saw your flowerbox last night when I was going in through your window. It was hydrangeas. Not daffodils. And as far as I’ve seen, you’ve got no daffodil motif going on in your home décor. Must mean you’re stitching that as a gift for someone else. Whose is it?”

Martha crossed her arms. “Been ‘deducing’ what you can about my life while I was out in front, were you?”

“You’re keeping an injured woman hostage on your bed for an indefinite period of time. What else am I supposed to do?”

“For starters, you could tell me what you were planning to do in Sherlock’s bedroom last night while he wasn’t home.”

“I didn’t _know_ he wasn’t home,” Irene snapped, “You’d left your ridiculous flag up!”

“And now that you know he’s here, you refuse to see him,” Martha retaliated. “What _is_ going on here?”

Irene crossed her arms and turned her head, like a brooding teenager in a tantrum. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. I don’t have to share that with you, ever.”

Martha raised an eyebrow. “Oh, right you are, we don’t have ‘ever’. Just four, five days. A week if you’re a slow healer.” She dropped a hand and nudged her knuckles gently against the pillow Irene’s ankle was resting on. When it only prompted the younger woman to bite her own lower lip, still avoiding eye contact, Martha sat down at the edge of the bed. “Alright, what about a story for a story. I’ll tell you why I chose daffodils.”

“ _Hm._ ” Irene huffed, snobbish, but the minute relaxing of her folded arms told Martha she was already listening.

“Daffodils,” she said, “were my best friend Margaret’s favorite flowers.”

Irene wrinkled her nose in what seemed like disdain, though the word escaped her lips, “’Were’?”

Martha shrugged. “I haven’t seen her since I was in my twenties, a little after I got married.”

Irene frowned, finally looking at her. “And yet here you are, stitching her a coaster.”

“Oh obviously I’m not going to track her down to give it,” Martha laughed, though she found herself turning away from Irene to gaze towards the sunlit window. “It’s just… in remembrance, I suppose. In fact, I don’t even know if she’s alive or dead.”

“What’s stopping you from finding out?” asked Irene.

“Heavens, well, where would I even begin?” said Martha. “We were living together in Florida when I met my husband, you know. She could still be in America. What if she’d gotten married, changed her name? And even if not, there are thousands of Margaret Isaacs out there – and don’t you dare suggest Facebook, I’ve already tried. She’s not to be found.”

Irene shook her head. “The world, you’ll find, is astonishingly small. Bordering on claustrophobic.”

Martha smiled sadly. “Maybe for a daring young thing such as you.” She rested both her hands on her lap. “I was a daring young thing before, too, but now? I don’t think I’ve got the fuel to make the long journey back to the state where I had to testify against my husband to get him a death sentence, thank you – oh, I’ll tell you about that another time, dear. It’s a funny one. Also how I met Sherlock,” she added, when she saw Irene’s perplexed expression.

The younger woman nodded slowly, like she was processing this information. She could look very dangerous while she was thinking, Martha observed. But then, what use were the prattlings of a little old lady to someone like her?

It was then that Irene uncrossed her arms, and said, “Breakfast?”

Martha was about to object that she hadn’t shared _her_ story yet, though she decided that they had four or more so days to open up to each other, after all, and she _was_ rather hungry. They had beans, toast, eggs, and some nice tea – in bed, of course.

* * *

The rest of the day went by, surprisingly, like normal: Martha had to step out at one point to buy groceries, but she’d left a stack of war-related books on her nightstand by Irene so she wouldn’t have to get out of bed to entertain herself. When she’d returned an hour later, Irene hadn’t finished any of them, but _had_ been able to figure out Martha’s habit of dog-earing pages with words she wanted to look up later, plus the fact that the owner of the secondhand bookshop she frequented had a drinking problem. Other than that, Martha would slip in and out of the bedroom – to do chores, watch TV, have a day like any other.

That strange mood of calmness, of contentment, extended on to later that night, while Martha sat at her desk to try and get her current embroidery work started again, while Irene lay in her bed, halfway through a war romance, head drooping every few seconds.

They both looked up, however, upon hearing the sound of a window upstairs being slowly pushed open.

Everything felt very still for the next several seconds. Martha was looking out her window, her back turned to Irene, but the younger woman’s tension was almost palpable. There was utter silence – from her, from Irene, from the resident in the bedroom upstairs.

Finally, Martha found command of her body again, and slowly turned to look at Irene. She said, in almost a whisper, “I won’t say anything if you won’t.”

Irene looked as if her words didn’t register with her for a moment. But then she blinked a few times, the muscles in her face moving in the minutest ways, as if she were sifting through which of the several emotions she was feeling she wanted to show in her expression. She settled on something like trust.

Martha smiled at her.

A full minute later, they both heard the window upstairs pull closed.

* * *

It had been twenty-four hours since Martha had welcomed the boys back to Baker Street from their out-of-town zoo case, and she hadn’t heard from Sherlock upstairs since. No yelling for tea, no explosions in the kitchen. Any other day she would’ve been grateful for the peace, if a little lonely, but today it was rather concerning.

There was the consolation of John Watson coming by again today, and he was currently upstairs with Sherlock. Meanwhile, Molly Hooper had just arrived, and was having brunch with her in her kitchen before heading upstairs as well. Later that afternoon, Detective Inspector Lestrade would come by for tea. It was days like this, when 221 was bustling with activity, noisy with visitors and family, that Martha loved living on Baker Street the most.

“Is it hard?” Molly asked her, as she scooped up a forkful of egg from her plate. “Maintaining the back gardens?” The pathologist was looking for a new home, preferably a block with an inner yard, she’d said, and had come by to ask for advice.

Martha shook her head. “Oh, I barely go out back there. Nobody _looks_ at the inner gardens in any case.” She paused to think. “At least. _I_ don’t.” Probably why it was so easy for Irene to sneak in from the back all these months. Speaking of, she was currently still imprisoned, instructed to keep quiet, and given Martha’s mobile to abate her boredom (and sulking). Quite funny how easy it was to act normal now, with Molly over, as if she didn’t have a hostage in her bedroom.

“Oh, my mum would like you,” Molly said. “She didn’t like keeping up a garden much, either. Maybe I can invite you next time she’s over, you two could discuss how much you loathe raking leaves or something.”

Martha laughed. “Sounds lovely. It’d be nice to make friends my age.”

Molly giggled. “Oh, we cool young graduates just seem to tumble into your life, don’t we.”

Martha briefly wondered if Irene Adler had a college degree. “So it seems.”

Suddenly, the sound of something heavy hitting the floor – Martha’s and Molly’s plates quaked slightly from the force.

“What was that?” Molly said, startled.

Martha pushed up from her chair, one foot already taking a step back towards her shut bedroom door. “I’d better, er, check my – “

“I think it came from upstairs,” said Molly.

The two women hurried up the steps, and barged into 221B – finding John, hands on his hips and looking rather cross, while Sherlock manically pulled books out from his shelves, fumbling his hand over the empty spaces. The drawers at his work desk were all pulled open, and the stacks of paper on top had been flung to the floor.

“What on earth is going on?” Martha asked, bewildered – and also frustrated at the mess she’d probably have to clean up later. “John, what’s he doing?”

“Hell if I know,” the doctor shook his head. “When I got here, he was all quiet and moping in his chair. Thought it was his usual post-case crash. Went up to my old room to grab something, then came back down to _this_.”

“Where is it,” the three heard Sherlock mutter, and they all turned to him digging through the stack of books and papers he’d already pushed to the floor, “where _is_ it.”

“Where is what?” Molly asked.

“The thing I’m looking for,” Sherlock answered. Martha was hit with a pang of worry, and she was sure John and Molly were, too. The last times Sherlock had been like this, mumbling to himself as he frantically trashed his own home, it was in search of… well…

“Tell me what it is, Sherlock,” Martha said, stepping forward. “I clean up around here sometimes, I might remember – “

“No, you wouldn’t,” Sherlock cut in, now pushing around the things he kept on the windowsill where his violin case rested. “It’s not something that you know of.”

Martha laughed. “Oh, try me!”

Sherlock stood up so abruptly that John and Molly jumped. He turned to look at the three of them – no, he turned to look at Martha. “Trust me. No matter how hard I try, you wouldn’t get it!”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” both John and Molly said – firmly, angrily. Besides Martha, they were possibly the only other two people on Earth who knew how to talk the man down. Their joined voices seemed to hit the off-switch to his frenzy: he wavered, as if only now processing the words he’d just flung at her.

Martha, on her own part, had stopped smiling. But she wasn’t hurt. Yes, to their friends, what he said might’ve sounded like an insult to her intelligence. But she knew – and part of her suspected _he_ knew that she knew – that this was about something, someone, he was keeping secret from everyone.

“I’m…” Sherlock began, quietly. “I didn’t mean that. Sorry.” Only one side of his mouth opened as he spoke those words, as if he were merely letting out air.

“It’s alright, dear, I know,” Martha smiled again, but sadly. “I know.”

* * *

After bringing both John and Molly to the door and exchanging goodbyes, assuring them that she’d take care of the mess upstairs (they could interpret that as they wished), Martha headed back to her bedroom, where Irene was reliably still lying on her bed, having discarded the landlady’s mobile to the opposite side of the mattress.

“Have enough of Candy Crush?” Martha asked, as she gently re-fluffed the pillows at Irene’s head, then the one at her foot.

“I beat it,” Irene replied, sounding like her soul had been sapped out through her eye sockets. Then she turned her head to look up at her. “How is he?”

Martha paused, and thought of how to answer her. Then, “He’s sad, I think.”

Irene’s expression was unreadable. She probably trained herself to make it that way, Martha mused. The older woman straightened. “You’re going to have to tell me why you came here, you know. Eventually.”

Irene nodded, but didn’t answer. Martha sat on the bed, by her foot, and they stayed there in strangely peaceful silence for a minute or so.

“So,” Martha said. “What did you figure out from snooping through my files?” She wasn’t dense enough to believe she’d spent the last two hours only playing games.

Irene smiled at that. “You take pictures of adorable pet dogs you see on the street.”

“Hm, and what does _that_ tell you about my inner psychological turmoil,” Martha said mock-seriously, as she gently took Irene’s ankle to inspect the bandaging.

Irene shrugged. “That you’d really, really like a pet dog?”

Martha laughed at that, and found herself bemused by the fact that the two of them had gotten to this stage. Then she patted Irene’s leg. “How do you feel?”

Irene moved her toes, then her whole foot, a little bit. She winced, but not deeply. “Better. The swelling’s gone far down.”

“Wonderful,” Martha said. “How about a bath?”

The younger woman flinched. “Excuse me?”

Martha gestured over her. “You’ve not moved all day; you might start growing mold on my mattress. Plus it gives me a chance to redo these bandages. Also, don’t you want to get out of those clothes?”

After over twenty-four hours in Martha’s home, Irene was _still_ in her coat and black jumpsuit, and was just barely masking her discomfort about it. And still she fiercely guarded whatever little object she was keeping in her coat pocket. In fact, the night before, Martha had vaguely noticed as she was drifting off, that Irene was watching her – waiting for her to fall asleep first.

Now, though, Irene bit her lip in thought. “Fine.”

Martha helped her again to the bathroom, and this time they handled the arm-slinging and waist-holding with expert ease. Irene caught both her hands on the ledge of the sink to support herself, while Martha filled the bath, asking, “Need help with your clothes?”

“No,” Irene said sharply, quite the contrast to her quiet acquiescence just seconds earlier. “I’ll do it, thank you.”

“Oh, then, er, I could turn around then – “

“It’s fine,” Irene shrugged. “I don’t mind.” She shucked off her coat, but folded it up to bundle that thing in her pocket in the very center of layers of fabric. She braced a hand on Martha’s shoulder to set the coat aside. Then she slipped effortlessly out of her jumpsuit, though had to lean against the sink as Martha helped pull her injured foot out from the leg. Then she shed her undergarments and, with dexterity surprising for someone with a sprained ankle, helped herself into the bath, sighing into the warm water.

“Miss Adler,” Martha said cheerfully, easing herself into the stool next to the tub, “I’m impressed by your progress. Two nights ago, you wouldn’t let me offer you a blanket. And now here I am, with the chance to scrub your back.”

Irene, eyes closed and head leaned back, let out an amused huff of air. “You won’t get to do that, I can promise.”

“I imagine a daring young thing like you knows not to let her guard down when dealing with world-class criminals,” Martha said.

“Why,” Irene said, opening one eye to look at her – very Sherlock. “Are _you_ a world-class criminal?”

Martha laughed. “Oh, heavens, no. I just meant it’s flattering how nicely you’ve warmed up to me.”

Irene’s lips moved, like she was editing her words. “You’re Sherlock’s landlady. And friend. I have no reason – and every reason – not to trust you. It’s a strange position to be in.”

Martha smiled, and looked at the younger woman’s half-wet hair, her clean face. “Look at you. You look almost like you did years ago when you first came here.” She knew now that Irene had been putting up a front then, as this sweet, though quiet, new client of Sherlock’s, who’d fled to Baker Street as her last refuge.

The memory of that seemed to unsettle her, though, and she diverted her gaze to the wall tiles. “You were…” she said, haltingly, “Kind with me then, too.”

“Why wouldn’t I be,” Martha said. “You were our guest. And client.”

Irene still stared into the distance, obviously thinking. “Quite a simple reason for being kind, don’t you think,” she mused aloud.

Martha couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped her. “You sound a bit like Mycroft, right now.” Irene winced further at the name – ah, Martha had it figured out. “You don’t like to look back at the past, do you?”

Irene shrugged. “Else I might start embroidering daffodils for people I haven’t seen in decades.”

Martha’s chuckle became a full-blown laugh. “You would, wouldn’t you.” She put a hand on the ledge of the bath. “She wasn’t just ‘people’ to me, though. She was much more.”

“Then why did you lose touch?” Irene’s face was plain, passive, belying the warmth in her voice.

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know why myself. We were closer than anything, really – moved to Florida together because we loved the beach, the lifestyle there. On weekends we’d travel north and hike. And then,” Martha paused to frown, “And then I met and married my husband. She stuck around for a while… but not long. Last I heard from her before his drug cartel swallowed up my time, she was thinking of leaving Florida to travel the world.”

When she finished, Martha turned again to Irene, who looked a little confused. She said, “You always end your typical sounding stories with very alarming facts about your husband.”

Martha smiled sadly. “They’re not alarming to me. Not anymore.”

When the bath was over, Martha lent a towel and again offered a bathrobe, and this time, Irene finally accepted it – but she insisted on keeping her old clothes at her side. They hobbled together back to the bed, the younger woman clutching her jumpsuit and coat in a protective ball to her stomach. It was really starting to get gnaw at Martha.

Irene settled back onto the mattress, while the landlady got to re-dressing her ankle. It was true, there wasn’t much swelling anymore. The girl was a quick healer. Martha looked up at her, wrapped in a pink bathrobe, almost glowing in the still-bright morning sun, still holding her bundle of clothes to her chest.

“Dear…” Martha began, and a part of her was surprised to see Irene respond immediately by flicking her eyes up to her, open and questioning. She took a breath. “When I was with Sherlock, upstairs. He was… searching for something.”

Irene didn’t blink or look away, but she visibly swallowed. After a moment of silence, she said, “I know what he was looking for.”

Martha’s hands, still at Irene’s ankles, were frozen still. “What was it?”

The woman didn’t move for a time. “This.” She loosen her arms around her balled-up coat, and plunged a hand into the inner pocket.

She pulled out an odd-looking cameraphone, wide like a brick, black with gold accents.

Martha stared at the object. She recognized it, vaguely. Years ago, around Christmas time, it felt, she would come upstairs to clean up and see Sherlock holding something like it in his hand, turning it this and that way, while standing by the window or curled up in his chair. It was around the time he’d been playing that hauntingly sad melody on his violin. Sometime later, for some reason she remembered coming upstairs to find him holding _two_ of the cameraphones. She’d asked him then where the other one had come from, but he was always deep in thought.

“I took it from him,” Irene said, interrupting her train of thought. Martha looked at her to show she was listening, and the woman took a breath and continued, “I started coming back here about half a year ago. The first time I’d visited, I waited til he’d fallen asleep. Then I… searched his sitting room. I found this in the drawer of his desk.”

“Why did you take it?”

A measure of coldness, of authority, sparked in Irene’s eyes. “Because it’s _mine._ ”

“You never told him you’d taken it,” Martha ventured, and the younger woman shook her head. She continued, “What were you two quarreling about, that last night?”

Irene didn’t seem surprised or offended that Martha had heard that. Her fingers tightened on the device. “He had uncovered my birth name.”

It was a strange, and alarming thing to hear. Martha leaned back slightly. “You mean… ‘Irene Adler’ isn’t…”

Again, the woman shook her head. She held the cameraphone close. “The idea was that… all those crimes, all those entries in people’s hit lists, were under ‘Irene Adler’. If I were to re-enter England, under my original identity…”

Martha wilted. Oh, Sherlock. So obvious, so sentimental. “The man hoped you could stay for good.”

Irene nodded stiffly, not meeting her eyes. But then, unexpectedly, she let out a humorless laugh. “Did you know, I had already been considering it. Coming back. But then he had to go and dig into my past like he did, taking things without telling me.”

Martha furrowed her brows. “Well, not to be cheeky, dear, but…” she gestured towards the cameraphone she was clutching to her chest.

“It’s not the same,” Irene objected sharply. “Both of these – this phone, my name – they’re _mine._ I decide when to give them and when to take them back. And… and when to leave them behind.”

There was a tense silence that fell between the two women, and neither could meet the other’s eyes for a while. It was partly due to Martha’s mind buzzing, stumbling, with so many realizations at once.

“You’d come back two nights ago…” she said, almost feebly, “…to return that phone. To say goodbye.”

Irene, trembling, nodded. Martha’s fingers fell away from her bandaged ankle.

Again, they were both quiet. Despite the warm morning sun, it felt very cold there, in their corner of the bed. Martha clasped her hands on her lap, realizing with a sinking sensation what she had accidentally come between. A war between just two people. She had allowed herself to walk onto their battlefield.

“You thought Sherlock would be home that night, you thought you could give a proper farewell,” Martha said slowly to her. “But part of you hoped you’d never have to face him.”

Irene’s lips quivered, but her eyes looked dry. “Do you know, Mrs. Hudson,” she said softly. “I’m not sure whether I’m extremely lucky or unlucky that you intercepted the way you did.”

For all their earlier tension, Martha allowed herself to smile. “I’d think that’s enough to tell you how uncertain you are about your choice to leave for good.”

Irene laughed again, bitterly. “Do I even have a choice? I’m trapped here, one floor beneath Sherlock, injured, powerless.” She scoffed. “Perhaps it’s appropriate you have a white flag out in front. I could wave it from the curb to signal my defeat.”

Martha stared at her for a few seconds, before sighing and shaking her head. “Irene Adler. Did you even pay attention to those books I’d lent you?”

Irene squinted. “Sorry?” She looked to the stack of war novels on the nightstand that Martha had given her yesterday, when she’d stepped out for groceries. “What about them?”

Martha quirked an eyebrow. “If you hadn’t spent your time figuring out my reading habits or the bookshop owner’s secrets or what have you, you would’ve learnt a thing or two about battle politics. Yes, young people now recognize white flags as a sign of surrender. But that’s jumping to conclusions, in some cases. You know, when a party waves a white flag for the other side to see, sometimes, they’re simply requesting a negotiation.”

Irene’s lips thinned. “Negotiation.”

“That’s right. You bargain, you trade ideas. To make sure both parties come out alive with minimal damage.”

The younger woman didn’t reply. She was thinking again, Martha could tell. Thinking panicked things, confused things, enthralled things.

Finally, she said, “You have very strange interests for an old landlady.”

Martha grinned. “I do embroidery, too.”

* * *

The next morning, Martha trudged upstairs to 221B, broom in hand, to take care of the clutter Sherlock had made the previous day while searching for the cameraphone. She had promised Irene she wouldn’t say a thing – in fact, she didn’t even want to reveal anything about her. That decision, she’d told the woman, was hers alone to make.

She opened the door – and was surprised to find the floors cleared, the bookshelves neatly re-stocked. The sitting room was spotless. Well, as spotless as 221B typically managed to be. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, fully dressed, scrolling through his phone.

“Er, morning, dear,” Martha coughed. “Did you…”

Sherlock looked up, expression plain. “Good morning. Yes, I took the liberty of cleaning up my mess myself. You never returned yesterday afternoon, so I’d presumed you were cross with me and wanted me to deal with it on my own. So.” He shrugged a shoulder.

Martha was stunned for a moment. Yes, for quite some time now her tenant had shown that he’d become much more considerate, more careful. But the man was never skilled at _tidying up._ She wondered how many Youtube tutorials he had to look up to accomplish this.

“I… well. Thank you, then,” she finally said. Then she cleared her throat. “…How are you feeling…?”

Sherlock frowned, though didn’t lift his eyes from his phone. “Fine.”

“…Sherlock,” she said, taking a step closer, though not before setting her broom to lean against the doorframe. “Why don’t we talk about yesterday?”

“Don’t see why we have to. All the damage from that particular outburst has been taken care of. What’s there to deal with?”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Martha repeated, a little sadder. “You’ve come so far. And yet… some things bring you right back.”

That finally made the detective lower his phone. “What _things_.”

Martha dared to give him a chilly look for the tone he’d used on her. “Well! You can answer that question yourself.” She promptly turned around and exited the way she came.

Once she’d reached the landing, Martha realized she’d left her broom by Sherlock’s door, but decided she was too irritated to come back up and retrieve it. She went on to her own sitting room, walking towards her kitchen.

“Can you believe that man, Irene,” she huffed, “He’s like a switch, that one! He’s either nothing or he’s totally angry with the whole world – “

She paused to find Irene standing at her bedroom door – well, more like leaning one side against the doorframe, still in her pink bathrobe, dangling her bandaged foot an inch or so off the floor. “Dear, what are you doing? You shouldn’t be out here.”

“Mrs. Hudson,” the younger woman said, and gently lowered her heel to the ground, then shifted a bit of her weight to it. “It’s feeling much better. And there’s no swelling anymore.”

Martha blinked. “Oh, goodness. Your body’s a quick one, isn’t it?”

Irene craned her neck to look at something back inside the bedroom. “I may be ready to walk in shoes again.”

Martha shook her head in disbelief. “In _your_ shoes? Your towering things? Heavens, no. You’ll need another week before you can have those stilts back.”

Irene gave a frustrated look. “Then what can I wear to practice?”

The landlady grinned, and squeezed past her to open her bedroom closet. “We’re about the same height; perhaps we’re even the same size.”

When she pulled out a pair of plain, one-inch heeled pumps, Irene stared at them like they were torture weapons. “I don’t wear those.”

Martha couldn’t contain her laugh. “It’s all you’ll get til you can walk a straight line.”

The next thing she knew, Martha was sat in her kitchen chair, cheering on Irene as she tottered back and forth across the tiled floor, arms flung out as if on a tightrope.

“Christ,” the younger woman said, turning at the end of the hall to start walking back towards Martha. “I feel like I’m walking on gelatin.”

“My doctor warned me about that,” Martha quipped. “Maybe you should invest in a– “ Her words died, when she saw something appear at her main door.

“What,” Irene snorted, stopping mid-pace and dropping her arms. “A cane?”

Martha was still looking straight ahead, gone completely pale. Irene frowned, and turned to see what had caught her eye –

Sherlock, at her kitchen entrance, her forgotten broom in his hand. He stood there, frozen. Staring at Irene.

Irene stared back.

Nobody moved or spoke for what felt like a full minute.

Martha felt like she had dissolved into the air, and yet somehow also as heavy as stone.

“I – “

Both Irene and Sherlock had spoken at the same time. They shut their mouths at the same time, too. Sherlock swallowed, then flexed and uncurled the fingers of his free hand. Martha couldn’t help but wonder what they were both thinking. What Sherlock was thinking. It must be a shocking sight for him – to see Irene Adler, of all people, in a bright pink bathrobe, wearing his landlady’s shoes in her kitchen.

Martha coughed. Sherlock’s eyes went straight to her, and Irene spun around to face her as well, both probably desperate for answers. For a direction of what to do next.

Ah, the consequence of having such young, dangerous friends. They all looked to _her_ for advice. As if age made her any wiser.

“Sherlock, Irene,” Martha said. The detective looked rather thrown off by her use of her first name – was he not on that basis with her? She cleared her throat, and tried best as possible not to let any tremor be heard in her voice. “I believe you have some negotiating to do.”

Irene’s eyes widened, and she looked horrified for a few seconds.

Then, her shoulders slumped slightly. Not in surrender, no. Martha was sure. In acceptance. In agreement.

Steeling herself once more, the Woman slowly turned to face Sherlock, who still seemed unable to move. Making eye contact with her, though, seemed to inject a dose of panic into the man. She straightened her back, and took a few solid steps towards him.

Her ankle, though, was still weak, and only when she began slightly wobbling did it seem to register with Sherlock that she was injured, and he caught her in his arms when she finally toppled forward.

His expression was still stunned. He stared at Martha – she tilted her head towards him and gave him a look – _go on, then,_ it urged. He eventually regained command of his body, and began steering Irene out of the kitchen, towards their long, awkward journey up the stairs to 221B.

When they were finally out of sight, Martha let out a long, shaky breath.

She stepped outside to lower the white flag, to keep away clients and give the pair some privacy.

When she returned to her bedroom, empty, she sank heavily into the chair at her desk, staring at her still-unfinished embroidery.

Her hip ached.

* * *

 

**One Month Later**

_In the end, Sherlock figured out that the murder weapon hadn’t been disposed of at all, but hidden inside the piano of the victim. It was the key discovery,_ John Watson’s latest blog post concluded. The top comment was a “ _*groan*_ ” from Molly Hooper.

Martha closed the browser on her mobile and put it aside, smiling. She knew what was coming tonight. Rather, who.

After her last visit, Irene never returned to Martha’s to report back to her. She’d dozed off in her chair, and woken up a few hours later to find her pair of heels neatly placed at the foot of her bed. The towering heels were gone.

She never did ask Sherlock how the “negotiation” had gone, but the man seemed – at peace. That was enough for her, and she decided she didn’t really want to meddle.

Now, with another case wrapped up, and Sherlock home and resting upstairs, Martha found that she was sort of looking forward to staying up that evening, and listen to the familiar sounds of a trespasser climbing the back wall.

She heard a knock at the front door, and sighed as she rose out of her chair. It would be disappointing if a new case were to come and mess up things, delaying the meeting. Perhaps she could tell this one that Sherlock was already entertaining a client at the moment, so –

Martha opened the door, and found herself face to face with Irene Adler.

“Mrs. Hudson,” the Woman said. Then, she wavered. “The flag is raised.”

Martha, for all her shock, raised a brow. “Indeed it is.”

Irene bit her lip. She was wearing her coat from before, and a blonde wig with a wide-brimmed hat, perhaps to conceal her face from the cameras. “So he’s in. For real this time.”

A smile spread on Martha’s face. “Yes. Not one of my tricks.” She stepped aside. “Go ahead, he’s upstairs.”

Irene shook her head. “May I… speak with you in your kitchen, first?”

It was surprising to hear. But Martha would be lying if she said it didn’t please her. “Why, of course.”

Once they were in the kitchen, Martha had to ask, no longer able to hold back her curiosity. “So, how did it go?”

Irene’s face remained plain, though not cold. “It went fine.”

Martha rolled her eyes. “You two sure speak very little for people whose nattering keeps me up all night sometimes.”

Finally, Irene showed a soft smile. “I let him keep my birth name in his memory. But he’s not allowed to ever use it.”

“Oh.” Martha tried to deconstruct that sentence in her head, to see if it made sense to normal people. She gave up quite quickly. “So you’re not ‘returning’ to London just yet.”

“No,” Irene shrugged. “But I’m working towards it. On my own. He knows.”

 _How do they deal with government subterfuge so casually_ , Martha thought to herself. “That’s… good? I suppose. It sounds good.” She put her hands on her hips. “Congratulations…?”

Irene laughed a little at that – what a strange, pretty sound, Martha observed. Then the woman reached into her pocket.

“One more thing,” she said, pulling out a scrap of paper. “I came by to give you this.”

Martha looked at the folded up sheet, and slowly took it from Irene’s hand. She opened it up –

She’d only caught the name _Margaret Isaac_ and a few lines of a street address before looking up in shock. “Irene…”

“I called in a favor from some of my people,” the woman told her. “The world, you’ll find, is astonishingly small.” Then her expression softened. “She’s here, Mrs. Hudson. In the city. Within your reach.”

“Oh…” Martha breathed. “I. I couldn’t…”

“Of course you can,” Irene said. “Won’t take more than a phone call, and an invitation to tea.” She smiled. “She never married, you know.”

Martha didn’t process that at first. And then it hit her – _finally_ it hit her. A very warm blush rose to her face. “Oh, you cheeky thing.”

“Consider it my gift to you,” Irene replied. “I suggest you finish that needlework in time for your first date.”

With a final, sly flash of her eyes, the Woman turned and, with perfect grace, exited Martha’s home. The landlady remained frozen to her spot by the kitchen table, listening to her footsteps up the stairs.

She stared at the slip of paper.

Whatever she was feeling that moment, it felt much like daffodils blooming.

* * *

Much later that evening, Martha set down her embroidery hoop, breathing a sigh of relief. The design was finally finished.

She wondered what she could do with her time now. Start stitching something else? Lord in heaven, no. Call Margaret? She needed a little more time, admittedly.

 It was then that she heard rustles of sound upstairs – footsteps, it seemed. The low murmur of two voices. She smiled a bit, then resolved to go right to bed, so as not to eavesdrop on any more intimate activities.

She didn’t expect the next sound – it wasn’t a window closing, or any embarrassing noises. She heard, instead, music.

She thought it was hallucination for a second, and shook her head in disbelief. No, that was definitely music, coming from the audio player in Sherlock’s sitting room.  A waltz, it seemed, from the classical instruments, and the beat.

Then, eventually, the sounds of footsteps, light and soft and rhythmic.

Martha Hudson smiled and leaned back in her chair, enjoying the music and the moonlight outside.


End file.
